


Christmas in Crawley

by Ferrenbach



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Christmas Dinner, Christmas Presents, Family Bonding, First Christmas, Gen, Language, Phase One (Gorillaz), Rachel Pot is a lovely woman with a smile on her face and murder in her heart, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13097088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrenbach/pseuds/Ferrenbach
Summary: David and Rachel Pot want their son home for Christmas dinner and if that means inviting his entire band, then that is what they will bloody well do.





	Christmas in Crawley

“I’m not going.”

“We already said you were going. You’re going.”

“I don’t have to fuckin’ go. They don’t want me there. I don’t want to be there. I don’t have to go.”

“Want you there or not, you were invited. Now get’cher ass in the car.”

“Look, you manky—”

“In. The. Car. You’re upsetting Noodle.”

Murdoc paused in his protests to look down at the little girl who stood between them, gazing up at him with her best puppy dog eyes, hands clasped in front of her. It was her first Christmas in England and she had been charmed by everything she’d seen of the season thus far, charming her caretakers in turn.

Russel couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed Christmas, but suspected he had been pretty close to Noodle’s age. He was fairly certain that Murdoc had never enjoyed the holiday per se, although he might have enjoyed any number of seasonal piss-ups, but Noodle’s excitement was infectious and he had done all he reasonably could to make the day memorable. He had permitted the singing of Christmas carols – even joining in the more secular selections – let traditional holiday television specials air without comment, helped Noodle decorate in any capacity she saw fit – even though some confusion led to tasteful displays of fruitcake – and woken up at the ass-crack of dawn, if not earlier, to watch Noodle squeal over a glittering tree piled with presents.

Now, with paper still littering the floor, he was finally balking at Christmas dinner. Not because he had anything against it or would be forced to prepare it, but because 2-D’s parents had invited the entire band over to share it.

Russel had asked himself more than once why they should bother, but knew that question had more to do with his own tendency to shy away from large gatherings than any logical conundrum. He had met the Pots only once before, very briefly, but sensed they were good and decent people. They had asked because wanted their son to come home for the holiday, wanted to share in Noodle’s excitement, and wanted to extend that hospitality to any of 2-D’s friends who might not have other plans.

They had extended that hospitality even to Murdoc, who had first put their child in a coma, and then carried him off to a life of sex, drugs, and rock and roll – or something very near to it – because it was the good and proper thing to do. After a few tense conversations, the band had called back to accept the invitation, largely because Noodle seemed very excited to meet some of 2-D’s family and see if Christmas was as glorious in other houses as it was in the studio.

“There won’t be any more presents,” Murdoc told her in a last-ditch effort to curb her enthusiasm. Russel knew that, if Noodle insisted, he would acquiesce, no matter how uncomfortable it was for anyone else.

“Toochi’s mum said visit!” Noodle insisted. “Toochi’s mum has pudding!”

Russel left her to coax Murdoc into the vehicle while he drifted back to where 2-D was slowly edging toward a nervous breakdown.

“You got your bags?” he said, deliberately ignoring the contest of wills between Noodle and Murdoc.

“Yeah. Inna trunk,” 2-D said, twiddling his fingers, pausing briefly now and then to thumb at his mouth or tug at his hair. “If he really dun wanna come…”

“He’s coming,” Russel told him.

“Yeah, but he… I know my folks dun like him…”

“I’ve met your folks. Your folks are good people. They’re not going to invite three-quarters of a band, no matter what they think of the fourth. And Noodle’ll be miserable if he stays behind.” He cut off the bright idea he saw flash in 2-D’s eyes by adding, “At this point, she’ll be miserable if we all stay behind, too. She’s got this notion that your parents’ place is Wonderland and she won’t be happy until she sees for herself.”

“But I dunno if i’s a good idea… all of us inna same house…”

“It’s a fucking terrible idea, D,” he said, figuring there was no point in beating around the bush, “but the plans are already made. We can’t just leave your folks hanging after we said we’d come. Now, dinner’s in a few hours and it’s gonna take us a couple just to get there, so help me get Murdoc in the car. I hope to God he brought a change of clothing and isn’t planning on wearing the same shit two days in a row.”

“He packed a bag,” 2-D offered, but sounded doubtful. “I put it inna trunk with mine ’n’ Noodle’s.”

“So we’ve got that much done at least. Let’s get rolling.”

He moved back toward Murdoc, ready to lay down a few threats, but Murdoc's head already hung in defeat as Noodle jumped around excitedly.

“Come on! Come on!” she cried, pushing Murdoc toward the car.

“If you’re not letting me drive, I’m sitting in the back with her,” Murdoc said and Russel was happy to oblige. He insisted on driving lest Murdoc hie them off North instead of where they were supposed to go, and if Murdoc was in the back seat with Noodle, he wasn’t in the front seat bitching to him.

That left the front seat to 2-D, who only bled fear and anxiety. His fingers quested in and out of his pockets, searching, retreating, writhing together, and then repeating.

“Don’t you start popping pills or I’m gonna leave you on the side of the road,” Russel told him as he started up the vehicle and eased out of the studio car park. “I don’t wanna be haulin’ your half-conscious ass into your folks’ place. And if you’re gonna smoke a joint, do it now so that shit can air outta the car before we get there.”

“Yeah, Dents. Relax,” Murdoc said, grinning as he shook a cigarette out of a pack and jammed it in his mouth. “I won’t even feel up your mum this time.”

The speed with which 2-D whirled around in his seat and made a grab through the console nearly put them off the road.

“Shit, D! Sit down!” Russel shouted, elbowing 2-D in the side until he dropped back down into the seat, scowling, while Noodle shrieked laughter from the back seat. “What the fuck, Murdoc?”

“Well, I didn’t know who she was,” Murdoc said, safely out of 2-D’s reach and unconcerned. “Nurses all look the same and I wasn’t focussed her face, mate.”

Russel gripped 2-D’s arm and held him in place. “For fuck sake, Murdoc.”

“Have you met his mum?”

“I have. She’s a nice lady. Now shut the fuck up, so I can drive.”

Murdoc did, but it was a tense drive all the same. It took a little while for 2-D to calm down enough for Russel to let his arm go, and then he hunched up in his seat and sulked, spitefully sucking a spliff and spewing out the smoke in a huff. All in all, it was less distracting than his nervous fidgeting, if far more apt to sour the mood. Murdoc seemed willing to take care of that problem, humming cheerfully to himself, pleased at having managed to spoil at least one person’s day. He eventually eased into “Jingle Bells”, which excited Noodle, and she burst into song, belting out lyrics she just barely understood, but could mimic almost perfectly. At some point, Murdoc stopped humming and joined the singing, dragging Noodle into “Let it Snow” and “Deck the Halls” until even Russel joined in, much to Noodle’s delight. 2-D, the only actual vocalist, remained a hold-out, but apart from chiding him now and then, Russel let him be. The kid took enough crap without having to be on point every hour of every day.

When music ceased to entertain, Russel tried to sharpen Noodle’s English skills with games of “I Spy” and various forms of car bingo (“Spot five cars of different colours.” “Spot five kinds of alcohol in advertisements.” “Shut up, Muds.”) and then they were pulling up to a nice, middle-class house in the middle of a nice, middle-class neighbourhood and the only one of them not feeling five kinds of discomfort was Noodle. She barely waited for the car to come to a full stop before bursting out of the door and running up the walk.

“Hold up, baby girl, you can’t go running off in strange neighbourhoods,” Russel shouted after her although, he supposed, the worst danger she would encounter were radically conservative ideals. “Get’cher ass back here!”

Noodle paused and turned long enough to pull a face at him – he secretly admired her cheek, even as he pointed a finger at her in warning – and whirled back toward the house, but then stopped, dumbfounded at the couple now on the walk.

“Hello, love. You must be Noodle,” the woman said, crouching down to bring her to a child’s level.

Contrary to the cliche of tall husband and petite wife, Rachel Pot stood at least five feet, ten inches. Russel was uncertain of her exact height, but knew she was taller than he, even in flats, which she preferred, given her profession. Classically buxom, she was a very beautiful woman – a fact undiminished by the onset of crows feet and strands of grey in her honey-brown hair – and, in spite of life’s attempts to knock them out of him, she had passed her good genes on to her son, right down to – God forgive him – her bright and slightly vapid expression.

David Pot surpassed his wife by a couple of inches and it was from him that 2-D had received his lanky frame, minus the creeping pot belly of middle age. He hung back a little, as uncomfortable as most of them felt, and leaned against the side of the house, leaving his wife to extend their welcomes.

“I’m Stuart’s mother,” Rachel Pot continued when Noodle only bit her finger, overwhelmed by the immense amount of… tallness… before her.

“Stoo-aht?” Noodle mimicked.

“Mum…” 2-D groaned, catching up to Noodle.

“That’s right,” Rachel said, eyes lighting in realization. “You wouldn’t call him that, would you? What is it that you call him now? 2-D?”

“Toochi!” Noodle agreed, ignorant of the hint of distaste in her hostess’ voice.

“Well, that’s a name he only got when he was bigger,” Rachel told the girl diplomatically. “When he was little, like you, we called him Stuart. Or Stu, for short.”

“Hi, Stoo!” Noodle said, tilting her head back to look all the way up at 2-D and giving a little wave.

2-D only sighed. “Mum…”

Confusion out of the way, Noodle immediately snapped into proper and polite greeting mode, bowing, forgetting all of her English after “Hello”, and rattling off the rest in a burst of Japanese.

Leaving Murdoc to unload the bags, but knowing he would likely pull out a cigarette instead, Russel joined the agonized 2-D and his somewhat bewildered mother on the walk.

“What the young lady is saying,” he offered, “is ‘Good afternoon, my name is Noodle. Thank you for inviting us. How are you today?’ or something to that effect. She also called you ‘obasan’, which, depending on the vowel length and context, can mean ‘grandmother’, ‘aunt’, or ‘random female person older than me’, but I’m not fluent enough to tell which is which.”

“We’ll assume the latter then, Mr. Hobbs,” Rachel Pot said before turning back to Noodle. “Thank you very much for coming. We’re happy to have you. And thank _you_ for your fine translation,” she added, standing up to shake Russel’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“And you, ma’am. Thank you for having us,” Russel told her and moved on to greet her husband as Rachel nudged her son to lean forward and kissed him on the cheek in greeting. 2-D looked supremely uncomfortable, caught between wanting the attention and feeling self-conscious in front of his bandmates, or at least in front of Murdoc.

“A pleasure to meet you again, too, sir,” Russel said, offering a hand to David Pot, and introducing Noodle.

“We’re happy to have you, Mr. Hobbs,” David Pot replied, “and especially this little one. That’s an interesting hat you’ve got there.”

He touched the top of Noodle’s radio helmet and she beamed with pride. Russel noted that his host had said nothing of Murdoc being welcome, and, frankly, couldn’t blame him.

“Hi, Dad,” 2-D said, slinking up behind them.

“Glad you could make it, son,” David Pot replied, clasping 2-D’s hand with one hand and his elbow with the other. Russel did not miss the note of tenderness that slipped into the man’s voice or 2-D’s nervous agitation.

Hug your fucking father, dipshit, he thought uncharitably. He reminded himself that 2-D’s position was not his own, but it seemed a terrible waste to have a family so accessible and shy away from them. A family could be ripped apart in an instant. A tiny event could change things forever.

And might already have, he allowed, as Murdoc oiled his way up the walk to join them.

“Rachel, David, so very good to see you again,” Murdoc said, grinning in a way that might have been friendly, but was failing badly. “Very kind of you to have my band over for dinner.”

“Well, it would hardly be right of us to invite Stuart and none of his friends, Mr. Niccals,” Rachel Pot replied.

Russel turned up his collar at the cold front moving in and solidified his belief that Murdoc’s stories in the car were lies created solely for the purpose of riling 2-D. Rachel Pot dominated Murdoc in size and – judging by her tone – if Murdoc had tried to touch either of her breasts, she would have crushed his head between them like a grape.

Russel cursed Jesus Christ and all the saints for giving him this momentary insight into Murdoc’s probable fantasies and prayed to God not to let him tread such paths again.

“Well, come on in before you catch your deaths,” David Pot insisted, holding open the door. “Do you have any bags?”

“Murdoc and I will bring them, sir,” Russel said, elbowing Murdoc back despite his grumbling. “I know Noodle is anxious to visit some place new and she’ll be more comfortable if 2-D is with her.”

He all but frogmarched Murdoc back down the walk toward the vehicle.

“Don’t even start,” he warned, as he pulled out Murdoc’s bag and handed it to him.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.”

There was a chance this was true, Russel allowed, as Murdoc had little time or respect for other people, but he was also too much of a hustler to not know how to work a crowd.

“Don’t fuck with me,” Russel told him, erring on the side of caution. “Show some respect to the parents of the guy you nearly killed and don’t get all familiar unless you’ve been asked. They’re having us over to dinner, there’s no call to be a dick.”

“I’m not trying to be a dick.”

“I believe you, but only because ‘dick’ is your natural state.”

“Look, Russ,” Murdoc all but hissed. “I’m not any happier about being here than anyone is having me here, but you’re the one who insisted I come along for Noodle’s sake.”

“And for Noodle’s sake, I hope you’ll suck your resentment up and be a human being,” Russel returned. “I know this is a shitty position for you, but it’s one you pretty much created, so try to come off as something other than a sleazy salesman.”

“As you like it, Mr. Hobbs,” Murdoc replied, grabbing his bag and Noodle’s and leaving the rest.

Fortunately, the rest consisted only of 2-D’s rucksack, his own bag, and a couple of gifts. He was disappointed in the selection, but they had had limited time to shop and, while 2-D insisted that his parents were certainly not expecting anything from them, he could not abide the thought of going to a house for Christmas dinner where three out of four of them were strangers and not providing the hosts with a gift of some sort. He knew he could take the edge off his anxiety by allowing Noodle to distribute them – 2-D’s parents were already charmed by her enthusiasm – but, in the meantime, they would remain a concern.

He returned to the house to find Noodle enraptured by a stack of undecorated gingerbread cookies and a table’s worth of icing, sprinkles, confetti candies, and hundreds-and-thousands for decorating. She was gleefully turning one cookie into a glittery, sugar-crusted monstrosity. 2-D sat across from her, tongue poking through his lips in supreme concentration as he carefully used an icing tube to line his work. Beyond them, Rachel Pot busied herself at a counter, putting food together.

“Look!” Noodle greeted him as he squeezed past Murdoc, who hung around near the doorway, unsure of what to do with himself. “I made you!”

She held up her cookie, densely packed with crystal sugar in colours matching his clothing. It was quite skillfully done, he thought, although the excess of candy blurred the dividing lines and forced facial features in on one another.

“That looks absolutely beautiful,” he told her as she put the cookie aside and took another, fusing two chocolate chips to its face. “What are you working on now?”

“Stoo-aht,” she replied grabbing a tube and dousing the cookie’s head with blue gel. Across the table, 2-D seemed to wilt.

“And what are _you_ working on?” Russel asked him, glaring at Murdoc until he eased away from the door and slumped into a chair beside Noodle, who immediately shoved the cookie plate toward him and ordered him to “make cookies”.

“Noodle,” 2-D replied. And so he was. The A-line shape of the gingerbread “girl” perfectly mimicked Noodle’s coat and he had recreated it as best he could with a thin base layer for colour and accents drawn from a tube. He had already added in her radio helmet with an edging of dark hair, and was currently attempting to define zippers and pockets. It was surprisingly good, Russel thought, and then wondered why he should should be surprised at all when 2-D had such long, dextrous fingers and was making an obvious attempt to focus on his work.

“No cutting! No!”

“Relax, Noods. It’s fine.”

“No!”

“It’s all good. Look,” Murdoc said, leaning in towards Noodle even as Russel stepped forward and Rachel Pot dropped what she was doing to come and investigate. “I’m making the Geep, see. It’s a much shorter car and open at the top. You want it to look right, don’t’cha?”

He had used a butter knife to trim a car-shaped cookie into something resembling the Geep. Asking Noodle to pass him the green icing, he began to smooth a thin layer of it over the pastry.

“Can’t have the band and not the Geep, right? Best part is, you can eat the extra bits while you decorate.”

“Okay,” Noodle agreed, feeling better about the desecration now that she knew it was in the name of accuracy. She nibbled on the bits of cookie Murdoc brushed toward her and continued her work on cookie 2-D. The actual 2-D reached past her to pick up a new cookie and offered to detail it to look like Murdoc so they would have a complete set.

Russel, for his part, wandered over to where Rachel Pot had relaxed and resumed her work.

“Anything I can do to help, ma’am?” he offered.

“That’s very kind, but no, thank you,” she told him. “Everything’s ready, really. I just thought Noodle would enjoy icing cookies before we eat. David’s fetching drinks from the cellar, although there’s some mulled wine if you prefer.”

When he declined, professing to prefer such beverages after a meal, she nodded her agreement, and then bit her lip.

“Noodle,” she began. “Out of curiosity… Is that her real name or a nickname?”

“It’s the only name she’ll give us,” Russel said. “And it’s not that she doesn’t understand the question. She understands a lot more English than she can speak, which I get. I’ve picked up some basic Japanese just listening to her and, if someone else said it to me, I’d understand what they were saying, but I still couldn’t use it in conversation. So she knows what it means when we ask for her name, but she won’t give us anything other than ‘Noodle’.”

“I see,” Rachel Pot replied, and Russel worried that she would ask more questions about Noodle’s background, questions they had no answers for, but she only smiled. “Well, I’m glad she’s enjoying herself. Christmas really is a time for children.”

He had little time to consider her answer as her husband entered the kitchen, carrying several bottles and asking if he would like a drink. He accepted a lager, which was poured out to him in a proper glass, demonstrating at least three times as much class as anyone around the studio. One was poured out for 2-D as well, who accepted it with the thanks of the very desperate. Murdoc looked on the verge of making a cheeky request, but sucked it up and accepted the same. David Pot then returned to the bench and mixed grenadine, orange juice, and ginger ale in a hurricane glass, topping it with a skewer of sliced orange and maraschino cherries.

“And a Sunset for the little miss,” he said, depositing the glass in front of Noodle, who gasped in delight and unleashed a verbal hail of thanks. She had been working on turning a house-shaped cookie into Kong Studios, but quickly abandoned it in favour of her garnish.

“You’ll spoil her, Dad,” 2-D said, demonstrating no concern whatsoever.

“Good,” his father replied. “It’s Christmas.”

“I din’t get no cherries.”

“Cherries are for virgin drinks, son.”

Russel thanked the Lord he had not taken a sip from his glass, unlike Murdoc, who choked on his beer and had to leave the table, claiming the need for a cigarette.

“True,” 2-D replied without batting an eye and Russel could not tell if either or both of them were joking. Rachel Pot busied herself with her serving dishes, remaining staunchly uninvolved. “Show Dad what you made, Noodle.”

Oblivious, Noodle happily rambled about the cookies decorated to look like her bandmates, the Geep, and the studio as David Pot slid into the seat beside her and made appropriate noises of interest and attention. Russel joined 2-D on his side of the table and listened in as well, Noodle’s explanations being wildly creative enough that any mention of zombies or demonic entities entering the premises were likely to go unremarked upon. She managed part of her telling in English, speaking in short phrases and pausing often to “ah” and “um”, filling in the rest with carefully enunciated Japanese, which was understood by no one, but could be inferred by the context.

After a while, when it was obvious that cookie-decorating had given way to storytelling, Russel nudged 2-D into helping him begin clean-up, capping the icing tubes and the containers of decorations. 2-D clearly retained some memory of the kitchen’s layout as he started ferrying the tubes and jars to a particular section of the pantry and wrapped up the undecorated gingerbread for later. By the time Murdoc returned, most of the work table had been cleaned and they were invited to move into the dining room at their leisure.

Noodle seemed determined to keep possession of David Pot, who shared his son’s patient interest in her chatter, clinging to his fingers with one hand and her drink with the other, following him cheerfully into the dining room with Murdoc trailing reluctantly behind, determined to stay as far away from everyone as he could while still being in the same room. Russel stayed back, offering to help ferry trays.

“It’s hardly necessary. You’re our guest,” Rachel Pot told him, nudging her son into grabbing a basket of rolls and a stack of extra napkins. When Russel insisted, she gave in and allowed him to transport a large dish of roast potatoes. “We’ll be using the sideboard for extra space. You’ll see where it’s been cleared.”

He had only just picked up the dish when a sharp, joyous squeal nearly made him drop it again. He quickly followed 2-D into the dining room, only to find David Pot lighting candles and putting out the wine he had left to rest earlier, and Murdoc slumped in a chair on the far side of the table. A fair-sized bird, golden brown and surrounded by small, wrapped sausages and dishes of condiments, graced the set table, while a cleared cabinet lay off to the side. Russel put his dish down on a hot plate holder and turned to Noodle, the source of the cry, who sat propped up on a plump cushion, pouring the contents of a stocking into her plate.

“Didn’t Santa already come to the studio?” Russel asked her, gently tweaking a lock of her hair, causing her to giggle.

“Rachel insisted she have one,” David Pot explained. 2-D looked faintly disappointed to have not received one himself.

Russel couldn’t blame him. He would not have turned down the offer either. While the stocking was not very large, it contained enough colourful odds and ends to keep even an adult entertained, if only long enough to explore its contents. Noodle sifted through little parcels of sugared almonds, dried fruits, and chocolate pretzels, two small mandarin oranges, a spinning top, and two logic puzzles: one made of rings and one of bent nails, flattened and blunt. The puzzles were not machine-perfect, suggesting they had been made by hand.

“Put those away for now, baby girl,” Russel told Noodle as she worked industriously at pulling the nails apart. “And take your helmet off at the dinner table. It’s not polite.”

Noodle played a little longer to exert her defiance, and then put the toys and most of the treats back into the stocking, passing it and her helmet to Russel, who put them on the floor in a corner where she could see them. The chocolate pretzels, she left by her plate. Russel thought to protest, but let it ride. If a child couldn’t spoil her appetite with chocolate pretzels on Christmas, when could she?

2-D eyed the mini sausages even as Noodle munched on her candy. As if on cue, the voice of Rachel Pot drifted in from the kitchen.

“Stuart, don’t even think of eating the pigs in a blanket before everyone is seated!”

“Pigs?” Noodle said, faintly alarmed. “What pigs?”

“These, like. See?” 2-D said, pointing to the sausages. When Noodle’s brow scrunched up in confusion, he picked one up and showed it to her. “I’s got a pork sausage innit, so…”

Russel watched as 2-D trailed off, realizing that he would have to explain why pork sausages were pigs to a small child. If one were very observant, he thought, one could pin-point the exact moment 2-D’s brain blew a fuse and triggered a system shut-down.

Fortunately for him, Noodle was old enough to have a better grasp of the food chain than her limited English vocabulary suggested.

“Pork is pigs!” she said, much to 2-D’s relief.

“Yeah. And… uh… they’re all wrapped in a bit of bacon, see? Like a blanket,” 2-D finished, uttering a weak laugh. “So… pigs in a blanket.”

Noodle nodded her understanding, feigning great wisdom. 2-D eyed the sausage still in his hand and popped it in his mouth.

“No pigs, Stoo!” Noodle shrieked immediately, ignoring the shushing gesture he made at her. “Obasan said no pigs!”

“Stuart Harold Pot!” his mother shouted from the kitchen.

“I picked one up to show Noodle!” 2-D called back in protest, following Russel as he returned to the kitchen for another dish. “I can’t just put it back if I touched it!”

“Then put it on your plate until dinner starts,” Rachel Pot told him, but got no further.

“Murdoku! No pigs!” Noodle wailed from the dining room.

“I don’t know how you manage with three children, Mr. Hobbs,” Rachel Pot sighed as 2-D picked up two dishes of roast vegetables. “Careful, sweetheart.”

“Noodle’s pretty mature,” Russel told her as 2-D cast him a dirty look and made his way back into the dining room. “And Russel will be fine, ma’am.”

“No, Ojisan! No pigs!”

“David!” Rachel Pot shouted and turned back to Russel. “Make that four children.”

“If it’s any consolation, they’re probably doing it just to rile her up now,” Russel grinned, gathering two more dishes.

“Then I suppose we should get started before a war breaks out,” she replied. “Go on, then. I have one more thing to check and I’ll be right behind you.”

Russel carried the last of the vegetables into the dining room where everyone was finally settling in. Noodle kept an eagle’s eye on the wrapped sausages, completely ignoring 2-D, who casually tilted his chair back to steal potatoes from the sideboard, and his father, who was eating a dinner roll. Murdoc kept himself to himself, plainly uncomfortable to anyone who knew him, but doing his best not to show it.

Although Russel would have preferred to sit next to anyone else, 2-D and Noodle had claimed one side of the table, and David Pot the head. With the other end reserved for the hostess, Russel took the seat beside Murdoc and hoped he wouldn’t have to curtail too many inappropriate stories or insensitive remarks. He scolded himself for the uncharitable assessment – Murdoc had behaved rather well up until that point – but felt no real remorse. It was a tense situation for everyone and Murdoc was as likely to retaliate with biting remarks as keep his cool. The day wasn’t over yet.

Once his wife joined them, David Pot stood and pulled two colourful boxes from the sideboard cabinet.

“Now that we’re all here, would you like to pass out the crackers, Noodle?” he said, opening the first box.

He pulled out a silvery tube, wrapped like a giant sweet. It glittered with sparkle-encrusted designs and Noodle’s eyes grew wide at the sight of it. Too overwhelmed to speak, she hopped down from her chair and went to see her host, who held it out to her and told her to give one to everybody at the table.

“Stoo-aht! Cracker!” she told 2-D, nudging him. He took it and thanked her, smiling at her fondly. She then proceeded to go around the table, passing out crackers one at a time, reserving a red and gold one for herself. She played with the ends, as if to twist them open, until she was told there was a proper way to go about it.

“It’s going to make a loud noise,” David Pot warned her, but Noodle, often the source of loud noises, was not deterred. “First, you have to hold it in your right hand…”

He demonstrated, and then crossed his arms. Noodle mimicked him faithfully, entreating 2-D, who was on her left, to take hold of the other end. She, in turn, grabbed the other end of his mother’s cracker, and then scolded everyone – mainly Murdoc – who had not yet caught up with proper cracker-breaking protocol. At her signal, for which she counted down from three, everyone pulled inward.

The crackers burst open with a sharp bang that made Russel wince a little, but Noodle’s squeal of joy quickly obliterated any discomfort. It was easy to forget the simple pleasures of being a kid. Watching her fascination and excitement as she discovered new ways to celebrate holidays was the next best thing.

It didn’t hurt at all that the novelty items that spilled out of the crackers were not as cheap and ridiculous as he remembered them, he thought, turning a slim pen-light over in his hand. 2-D’s parents had put a bit of money into their dinner party, it seemed, and even Murdoc was suitably impressed.

“What’s this?” Noodle said, sorting through her cracker contents and holding up a wad of paper.

“Issa hat,” 2-D told her, unfolding his. “A crown.”

“Princess crown?”

“Could be,” 2-D told her and put his on, its red colour sharp and bright against the blue of his hair. “How d’I look?”

Noodle laughed and followed suit, commanding that everyone else do the same. No one dared to disobey, even though some were reluctant.

“Murdoku! Be a princess!”

“I protest,” Murdoc told her and Russel briefly feared he would start a fight for the pleasure of getting Noodle’s goat, but he worked the crown down around his head and winked at her. “I am the one-hundred-percent-certifiable _king_ of the music industry.”

“Well, certifiable anyway,” 2-D said, secure in the knowledge that Murdoc was powerless in his parents’ home. Either the thought that Murdoc would retaliate back at the studio had not crossed his mind, or he had decided that it was a problem for another day.

“You look pretty,” Noodle said, diffusing the situation as she nodded her approval.

“Thanks, love. I can always count on you,” Murdoc told her.

“You can have pigs now,” she told him magnanimously.

If ever there was a signal to begin dinner, Russel thought, that was it.

David Pot carved the meat, which turned out to be goose, according to 2-D. Turkey was the usual thing, but, given the company, his folks had wanted to make the day special. Russel had never eaten it before, but it looked good, and tasted as good as it looked, even if it was slightly drier than expected. In fact, he found everything good and did his best to do the meal justice.

This pleased Rachel Pot, who was not shy about doling out portions and refilling plates, either by passing dishes from the sideboard or serving her guests herself, even Murdoc. Russel expected some resistance on this front, Murdoc being as inclined to drink his meals as anything else, but he put in an effort, even if he remained a rather terse dinner guest, doing nothing to ease the tension of his presence. 2-D’s mother even coaxed Noodle into eating a variety of vegetables, although the girl rejected the brussel sprouts after her first taste and argued against any of her food touching them until Russel took them off her plate. She was happy enough with turnip, parsnips, and potatoes and became a great consumer of the blanketed pigs she had initially tried to protect, although she did have some of the goose and dressing as well. Enough, in fact, to surprise herself with a burp that caused her to giggle even as she excused herself.

“You can stop feeding her, Mum,” 2-D said with some faint annoyance, although Noodle might not have been the only one in his assessment. Rachel Pot pressed no one to consume quite as much as her own son. Russel didn’t think she stood to serve anyone without dropping something else in his plate, sometimes bending to whisper in his ear, sometimes touching him briefly – his shoulder, his arm, the edge of his jaw – each time provoking the same look of embarrassment and longing. Regardless, he finished what she put before him with little to no protest.

Frankly, Russel wondered where he was putting it all. Given 2-D’s body masse, he didn’t appear to have the internal capacity for his mother’s onslaught, but he managed all the same, seeming no worse for wear, but growing sleepier as time passed until he was no longer able to help sustain the conversation, lapsing into silence as Russel did his best to field his hosts’ questions. Fortunately, Noodle was chatty enough for everyone – even if most of her chatter was in Japanese – and seemed unbothered by the vast quantities of food, picking at sausages and pickled vegetables even after Rachel Pot ceased to serve her.

As she wrapped up the harrowing narrative of her attempts to decorate the tree back at the studio – helped immensely by Murdoc, who lifted her up to let her place _the star_ – 2-D called a break to use the facilities and smoke. Also, Russel suspected, to swallow a few pills. He had been good so far, avoiding any excess, but he did have a legitimate need for them on top of the pangs of desire, and he was beginning to develop that twitch that suggested he was feeling both. Rachel Pot very carefully made no note of it, and only reminded him to return for dessert. Murdoc said something about joining him and stood to follow.

“Don’t forget!” Noodle cautioned them as they left the room. “Obasan has pudding!” She then flumped back down on her cushion and snacked on the remains of her chocolate pretzels.

“You don’t need to stay here and help me,” Rachel Pot told Russel as he began stacking plates to bring into the kitchen. “You can join your friends.”

“That’s all right, ma’am. I can join my friends anytime,” he told her, nearly adding that it was kind of nice to be rid of them for a while. “I actually prefer an occasional cigar to cigarettes. They’re less demanding.”

“Good man,” David Pot said, consolidating the leftovers into fewer dishes. “I enjoy a pipe in the evenings myself, but we’ve a moratorium on smoking in the house while Noodle is a guest. It must have been difficult for the others to adapt their habits to her.”

“Not that difficult,” Russel said semi-truthfully, uncertain as to whether any concessions had been made at all. If Noodle ever developed lung cancer, it would be from having Murdoc smoke as many as three cigarettes simultaneously in her presence. He also suspected she might have got a secondary high from one of 2-D’s joints as recently as that week.

Clean-up did not take as long as Russel expected. Rachel Pot was fortunate enough to own a dishwasher and had cleaned most of the cooking pans in advance, so there was little to do but scrape plates and load the machine as the desserts were prepared and Noodle’s voice drifted in from the dining room, informing David Pot that she played guitar and many Japanese things that sounded very impressive and likely involved her complex views on making music. From the occasional clink of metal, Russel guessed that Noodle had also retrieved one of her logic puzzles to play with.

He wondered how long it would take her to solve it. Her intellect was impressive, considering her age.

That reminded him of the two idiots shivering out in the cold and he stuck his head out the door to remind them that dessert was on the way.

“Okay, the real work’s done. It’s safe to come in,” he told them. 2-D looked half-asleep, barely able to adequately smoke and Russel felt a little bit bad about his assessment, but only a little. “If you don’t make it to dessert, you’ll have to deal with Noodle.”

“You could at least try for subtle threats, Russ,” Murdoc told him.

“Look, there’s trifle and plum pudding and if she’ll never forgive you if you miss her food being set on fire.”

“Fire? As in soaked in alcohol and lit on?” Murdoc prompted.

“From the smell of it, the entire country’s brandy supply’s about to go up in smoke,” Russel told him, “and if you aren’t there when it’s torched, Noodle will think you don’t love her anymore.”

“Fuck me. Dents, your mother will never own a restaurant, but she does know how to treat guests,” Murdoc said and Russel wondered if he had ever once offered praise without diminishing it with insult.

2-D only grunted in reply and tossed away his cigarette butt. He didn’t seem inclined to fight or even move too fast.

Russel herded everyone back inside in time to witness Noodle’s pyromanic excitement. Although the trifle had been made on the off-chance that she was not fond of plum pudding, the allure of eating something that had only just been on fire was as strong as the colourful layers of the fruit dessert and she insisted on having both.

“It’s pudding, not an island, love,” Murdoc cautioned her as she drowned the plum pudding in sauce, but she only eyed him defiantly until he added, “Save some for the rest of us. It’s only polite.”

With Noodle cramming dessert into her mouth, Murdoc likely to offer evidence incriminating 2-D, and 2-D eating dozily and only responding to low-voiced questions from his father, Russel carried the conversation, discussing the band’s current direction and some of the music they were working on. It felt a little awkward at first, knowing so little about 2-D’s parents, but he warmed quickly to the topic, passionate about their work and their plans.

His talk was cut short by a whine from Noodle that snapped 2-D to immediate attention.

“Wassa matter, pun’kin?” he said automatically. When Noodle only whimpered and clutched her belly, he uttered small sounds of sympathy and held his arms out to her, helping her crawl over into his lap.

“Tummy ache, yeah?” he said, cradling her with one arm and brushing hair back from her face with the other. “I told you she’d had enough, mum. She’s only l’il.”

“Well, she seemed eager,” his mother said, rising to fuss over her. “We can put her in your room if she’d like to lie down. It will be quiet upstairs.”

From the look of 2-D, the combination of Noodle’s weight and the flight of stairs was apt to kill him.

“Let me carry her before you put your back out,” Russel told him, standing up. “You grab her bag and show me where to go.”

He gathered Noodle up, although she seemed reluctant to go with him, whining for 2-D, who was “Toochi! Toochi!” again, now that it counted. Russel assured her that he would be coming with them and waited for 2-D to lead him.

2-D had only moved to Kong Studios a little over a year ago, but his old room felt like a tomb. It was not merely a matter of cleanliness – the one aspect of Rachel Pot’s aesthetic that had overridden that of her son – or the sense of things being otherwise undisturbed, there was a character to the wall posters and scarred furniture that 2-D no longer had. Russel could see bits of 2-D’s personality embedded here and there throughout the room, but felt a sharp dividing line between the singer and the room’s aura that made him shiver.

He might still be walking around, but 2-D had nevertheless had the life slammed out of him, and they had left the man responsible downstairs with his parents.

2-D fished up Noodle’s pyjamas, but she didn’t want them to leave and she didn’t want them to watch her, so they simply covered their eyes as she changed her clothes, and then helped her into bed. She demanded 2-D stay with her, and he sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her tummy, but told her he needed to go back downstairs.

“I think you should lie down with her, D,” Russel said.

“Oughtn’t leave ‘em alone with Murdoc,” 2-D replied.

“I’ll take care of it,” Russel told him. “What’cha gonna do if he acts up anyway? Shove your parents’ tree up his ass and make him a Christmas angel? ‘Cause that’s what I’m gonna do.”

2-D couldn’t help grinning at that.

“Gonna miss the speech if I do,” he said.

“The Queen doesn’t need your sorry ass,” Russel told him. “Noodle wants you here and you look done in. Just give it an hour or two and we can give your folks their gifts. I’ll come and wake you, if you want.”

“Yeah, that’s a’right,” 2-D replied, looking relieved as he stretched out on his side beside Noodle, who wormed her way against his chest. “No more’n two, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Russel told him, thinking he must already be half asleep. “I’ll let them know you’re up here.”

He came downstairs to find the dining room more or less cleared, the sound of the television drifting in from the front room, and Rachel Pot wrapping the leftovers, but keeping them within easy reach for later.

“I’m sorry, Russel,” she told him with a smile. “I’ve already finished cleaning without you. How is Noodle?”

“Noodle’s all right,” he told her. “Says her stomach hurts, but I think she needs a quiet room as much as anything else. It’s been an exciting day.”

“That will be two of them, then,” Rachel Pot replied and Russel realized he did not need to tell her that 2-D had stayed with Noodle. She would not have expected anything else. “David’s in the front room. I’ll be joining him in a minute if you would like to go ahead. Unless you would prefer to join Mr. Niccals outside this time?”

Although she was warm and welcoming to their group as a whole, Rachel Pot’s tone whenever she referred to Murdoc made Russel’s blood run cold. In a very practical sense, he could not blame her for her animosity – even shared in it most days – but his sympathies did nothing to dull the razor edge of her voice whenever “Mr. Niccals” rolled off her tongue. He had thought 2-D felt concern for his parents when he said he oughtn’t leave them alone with Murdoc. Now, he wondered which of them 2-D really sought to protect.

Russel thanked her and told her it was fine, that he would join her husband in the front room, knowing upon entering that it was normally her domain. Everything was decorated in soft creams and golds, including the Christmas tree, broken only by supporting touches of deep blue. The television seemed almost out of place, as though it were an item carried in solely for specific occasions, such as the entertainment of guests. It currently broadcast the Queen’s Christmas Message, which David Pot watched in a distracted fashion, turning his attention to Russel and standing to greet him when he walked through the door, offering him mulled wine from an insulated decanter. Russel accepted, informing him of 2-D’s whereabouts.

“I’m sorry I’m not as well versed in music as my son,” David Pot told him, pouring out the drink. “I hope you don’t feel too awkward here without him. He hasn’t had much stamina since the accident and, as he’s no doubt had a full course of his medication and Rachel has fed him up proper, I imagine he’ll sleep a while.”

Russel refrained from mentioning that 2-D never seemed to lack stamina in party-related situations since that particular brand of stamina tended to come in thirty-one flavours of artificial. He also did not argue that the band’s scrawny singer needed both sleep and feeding up, although, were he inclined, he might have included the love of his parents. Russel could not conceive of a reason why someone as emotionally needful as 2-D would choose to live in the dumpster fire of Kong Studios when their folks were obviously willing to support them. He supposed it could be 2-D’s own concept of freedom, although the sterile remains of his bedroom might also have something to do with it.

“Of course, if you don’t mind veering into other territory,” David Pot was saying, “I understand you’re a fair hand with an engine and built a vehicle of your own design.”

“Oh, yeah,” Russel replied. Now they were in his element. “The Geep. I started on it before I joined the band, but didn’t have the space or parts to really work on it until I moved to the studio. D’s lobbyin’ to get it into a video.”

He went on to describe the Geep’s specs, keeping it simple at first, but elaborating as his host’s questions demonstrated a broader knowledge of mechanics than any of his band mates. Rachel Pot joined them, listening politely until Murdoc eventually sauntered into the room and eased himself into an armchair.

“Mulled wine, Mr. Niccals?” she said sweetly. “Scotch, then?” she tried when he demurred.

Murdoc pondered that one for a moment and evidently came to the same conclusion as Russel: that 2-D’s mother couldn’t poison him in front of witnesses.

“Please,” he said, offering an ingratiating smile, “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

It was not – in this time and in this place – and with her duties as a hostess complete, Rachel Pot was free to feign interest in the conversation between Russel and her husband and ignore Murdoc to the best of her abilities.

Conversation surrounding the Geep moved into a discussion of power conversion. Electric would be ideal, Russel admitted, ignoring the disgusted snort from Murdoc’s direction, but he wasn’t certain he could get the necessary power and charging stations were not yet widely available. In time, a hybrid could be considered, and he gladly accepted his host’s offer to give him a list of companies to keep an eye on before they left the next day. This segued into a discussion over where everyone would sleep that evening. David and Rachel Pot offered up their bedroom, which Russel flatly refused, pointing out that, of all of them, they were the only two who qualified as a couple.

“Noodle can share a bed with D,” he said. “I mean, she’s got her own room at the studio, but, as you’ve probably noticed, they nap together a lot. I’m fine on the sofa, if Murdoc wants the guest room.”

“I’ll take the sofa,” Murdoc said, his voice brooking no argument.

“You sure?” Russel said. He would have preferred to have Murdoc safely locked up in a guest room where he couldn’t wander the house at night, but didn’t want to cause a scene.

“Yeah,” Murdoc insisted. “Don’t wanna wake anyone if I slip out to smoke.”

Russel had to admit that was fair and made a mental note to sleep with the car keys under his pillow so the rest of the band wouldn’t be left stranded if Murdoc decided to make an escape. He could hitch a ride back to Essex if that was his fancy.

David Pot excused himself and, lacking any shared topics of interest, Russel thanked Rachel Pot on Noodle’s behalf for the cookies, crackers, and stocking, telling her about the girl’s excitement upon waking to find presents under the tree she had helped to decorate.

Noodle turned out to be a safe topic. The tale of her first Christmas charmed Rachel Pot, who asked other things about her health and upbringing that worried Russel at first, but did not lead to any questions of legality. He assumed 2-D had already told his parents all he could about her and they had opted to trust their son’s opinion regarding her safety. Stories about Noodle’s English lessons, guitar practise, and reaction to new experiences also allowed Murdoc to chime in now and then, making his reserved affection for the band’s youngest member clear, and perhaps easing any concerns Rachel Pot might have had about her wellbeing.

After a while, Russel excused himself to use the facilities, noting as he left that David Pot had not yet returned. There was no one in the bathroom, however, so he took care of business and, noticing that his two-hour limit had nearly passed, climbed the stairs to wake 2-D.

He paused in the doorway. David Pot sat on the edge of his son’s bed, adjusting the hem of his shirt. He then gently lifted 2-D’s arm and brushed up the sleeve, gingerly turning his arm this way and that.

Looking for bruises, Russel realized.

“I grabbed him when he tripped on the stairs, so he might have a few on his other arm,” Russel told him, “but I guess Noodle’s sleeping on that one. I can’t account for any others.”

“I know where they come from,” David Pot said quietly, lowering 2-D’s sleeve and laying his arm back down. “I watched them come in on his skin in the days after Mr. Niccals dropped him off. The courts demanded he take custody of my catatonic son for ten hours every week, and every week he returned to me with fresh injuries. I suppose it worked out in the end. He did wake up, although it’s a bit of a mixed blessing.”

“He thinks he owes Murdoc his life,” Russel said.

“This life,” David Pot replied, running his fingers through his son’s hair. 2-D murmured something in his sleep, but did not wake. “He calls himself ‘2-D’ now. He’s even made it his signature. Knowing what it means, it’s a name I can’t use. I feel bad about it, I know he prefers it, but I want him to remember there was a Stuart before 2-D. What do you think?”

“Can’t say, sir,” Russel told him. “I’ve never had a different name. I’ve had friends with professional names, but they were always themselves at home. Still, if they insisted, I guess I might think it disrespectful. Like their folks didn’t trust ‘em to know who they were, even if who they were could change.”

“I see,” David Pot said sadly. “I suppose I worry that, if things get bad, he won’t remember that he has a past to return to. Will you do me a favour, Mr. Hobbs?”

“Russel is fine, sir,” Russel said, “and if you want me to keep an eye—“

“I won’t ask you to parent a grown man, Russel,” David Pot interjected. “He’s old enough to make his own choices. He’s also inclined to view things in an overly positive light. If ever I have questions about the situation at Kong Studios, may I rely on you to give a truthful answer?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you. Mr. Niccals, then… He’s good to the little one?”

“He grumps around some, but he’d never hurt her,” Russel said. “Noodle’s everyone’s favourite. We all take care of her. If I thought otherwise, I wouldn’t let her stay in the studio.”

As if attuned to the sound of her name, Noodle stirred and pulled away from 2-D a little, blinking at them sleepily.

“Ojisan? Russu?”

“Hey, baby girl,” Russel said, approaching the bed and holding out his arms. Noodle sat up, drew herself up onto her knees, and allowed him to pick her up and lift her over 2-D, plunking her down on the floor. “Go find your slippers so we can take out the surprises.”

“Toochi?” Noodle said, padding over to dig through her bag.

“He’s coming,” Russel assured her. Turning to David Pot, he added, “D asked me to wake him up in a couple of hours. That’s what I was here to do, but if you’d rather have the honours…”

“I’ll take care of it,” David Pot assured him.

Russel hesitated, and then took a chance.

“Listen, sir. I know you didn’t ask for any advice, but if you don’t mind my giving it all the same… Hug your kid. I mean, if you want him to remember he’ll always have a place here, I think that would be stronger than a name. There’s a lot of pressure on kids to grow up and stop needing affection from their folks, but then they get to their twenties and realize a lot of the arbitrary requirements people gave them for growing up are pretty stupid. Only, they can’t do anything about it because everyone’s been handed the same line and breaking the trend is hard, especially if they’re not the forward type.”

“And you think he would like that, do you?”

“I think he’ll think it’s weird as Hell at first,” Russel admitted, taking the robe Noodle held out to him and holding it up for her to slip her arms into, “but I think he would. What do you think, Noodle? Does 2-D like hugs?”

“Yes! Best hugs!”

“There you go, then,” Russel said. “Let’s go on ahead and get the surprises out, Noodle.”

He gestured for her to be quiet as they left, even though her excitement at the prospect of sharing out presents left her coiled as tightly as a spring. He did not allow her to unleash her energy immediately, but conducted her safely downstairs and made her stop to use the bathroom, after which she burst into the front room like a firecracker, shouting, “Murdoku! Presents!”

“In a bag by the door, love,” Murdoc told her as she squealed past him to fetch it. He waited until she was safely out from underfoot before rising to go after her. “Be careful. There’s glass.”

“Presents?” Rachel Pot echoed.

“Well, we appreciate you and your husband having us over for dinner and letting us stay the night,” Russel explained. “And Noodle’s really into the gift-giving part, so she helped pick things out and wrap them.”

“Obasan! Presents!” Noodle announced, toting the bag into the front room, Murdoc trailing behind her. She pulled a package clumsily wrapped with gold paper from the bag and pushed it into Rachel Pot’s hands.

“Well, thank you, Noodle,” she said, smiling, “but we can’t open presents until everyone is here. Why don’t you come with me to the kitchen for a moment and you can hand out the rest when David and Stuart are back?”

“Okay,” Noodle acquiesced, reluctant to leave the bag behind, but eager to see what other surprises Christmas might have in store.

“She’s not gonna want to come home at this rate,” Murdoc muttered once they had left.

“It’s Christmas. Let her have some fun,” Russel said as the sound of footsteps heralded the arrival of 2-D and his father.

2-D looked somewhat stunned and bewildered, hair tousled from sleep. He plucked anxiously at his father’s shirtsleeve, until David Pot patted his shoulder, nodded toward the kitchen, and suggested he give his mother a hand. 2-D murmured a reply, and then drifted away, leaving his father to check on his guests.

“Rachel’s no doubt preparing tea, but is there anything else I can get for you?” David Pot asked them. “A refill on your drinks?”

“Thank you, sir, but I’ll wait for the tea,” Russel told him, although Murdoc took a chance and accepted another scotch.

Once he had refilled Murdoc’s glass, David Pot pulled a pen from his pocket and scrawled a message on an envelope sitting in the branches of the Christmas tree. He then nudged some of the boxes beneath the tree, adjusted another label or two, and nodded in satisfaction.

“Wouldn’t do not to have everything properly marked,” he said, taking a position on one end of the sofa. “We’ve a few to distribute yet, although no one in the family is as young as Noodle at present. I imagine she’s helping in the kitchen?”

“It’s the best way to keep her busy. She likes to be helpful,” Russel told him. He had never before considered that 2-D might have other family – aunts, uncles, cousins – although it was certainly not unreasonable. He wondered if it would be polite to ask about them, when Noodle solved his dilemma by returning to the front room, proudly carrying a tray of pastries.

“Look!” she declared, holding the platter up to show them. “Pies!”

“Did you make those just now?” Russel teased her, and she giggled at him as she denied it and chastised him for being silly. “Better put them down so everyone can share.”

“Bring us a pie, then, love,” Murdoc told her as Noodle slid the platter onto the coffee table. She grabbed two of the mincemeat pastries and wandered over to Murdoc, who thanked her and lifted her onto his lap before taking one of the pies and biting into it. Noodle followed suit, humming her appreciation.

Rachel Pot returned to the front room with a tea tray, her son trailing behind her with bowls of nuts and other savouries. She passed cups of tea to those who wanted it, mixing Noodle’s with a generous amount of milk, as per her specifications. She passed a cup to her son, who clutched it in both hands and settled himself on the sofa beside his father, and then joined him there, running her fingers through his hair, much to his mixed pleasure and annoyance.

Once she had finished her pie, Noodle slid off of Murdoc’s lap and asked if she could finish giving presents. She fished through the bag, presenting David Pot with a clumsily wrapped gift and a bottle of wine tied with a bow for both he and his wife.

“Open them!” she commanded.

“Shouldn’t you hand out the gifts under the tree first?” Rachel Pot told her.

Confused, Noodle crouched beside the tree and pulled out one of the boxes, checking the tag, frowning over the label. She pushed it aside and tried a different one, her face lighting up when she recognized the name.

“Russu!” she crowed and carried the box over to him.

“Thank you,” Russel told Noodle, and then their hosts, “although it wasn't necessary.”

“Nonsense,” Rachel Pot told him. “You’re our guests. And as we already had a gift for Stu and a gift for Noodle…”

“Noodoru! Me!” Noodle announced, dragging a largish box out from under the tree. She looked tempted to rip the shiny paper off immediately, but continued in her duties. “Murdoku!”

No one could have been more stunned than Murdoc when she handed him a long box wrapped in matte black paper, but he accepted it graciously in spite of his probable suspicions.

Noodle crawled part-way under the tree, checking other tags, but found no other names she recognized.

“Stoo-aht?” she asked, backing out and sitting on her heels.

“The envelope in the branches,” David Pot told her, leaning forward to tweak a bow near the envelope.

Noodle reached up to grab it, looked at it, and held it out.

“Toochi! Present!”

“Thanks, luv,” 2-D murmured, impossibly flustered by the fact that he was wedged between both his parents. He fidgeted with the envelope, hardly daring to look at it, and Russel could not decide if he was worried about later ridicule from Murdoc or frustrated by an inability to adequately express himself.

He didn’t feel it was something 2-D should worry about overmuch as Noodle was willing to express herself for everyone.

“Open! Open!” she commanded, grabbing her teacup and dropping down cross-legged in front of the sofa, to better subject them all to her intense stare.

“I suppose there’s no need to put it off any longer,” David Pot said, speaking and moving just slowly enough to make Noodle squirm with impatient glee. He thanked her for the wine and passed it off to his wife for inspection, telling her they would be sure to enjoy it. He then began to peel away the paper, one end at a time, driving Noodle into a frenzy. By the time he put it aside and opened the box, she had put down her tea and risen up onto her knees in wild anticipation.

“I picked them!” she crowed before there was evidence of anything being picked.

“Them” turned out to be a pair of thick, lined, leather gloves designed for outdoor work in cold weather. David Pot tried them on to show Noodle how well they fit and thanked her profusely, allowing her to sit back down with a justified sense of pride. Beneath the gloves was a high-grade, lightweight multi-tool. It was not an item Noodle knew much about, but 2-D was willing to step up to the plate.

“So you can stop complaining about how yours is all loose an’ rusted,” he said, grinning. “That way I dun have to listen to how you nicked yourself on the small repairs every time we talk.”

“Don’t sass your elders. That tool’s older than you are,” David Pot said, ruffling his son’s hair. “Thank you.”

Rachel Pot was not nearly as dramatic as her husband, merely asking Noodle to come and show her the best way to go about unwrapping. Noodle rolled her eyes as though she could not believe the helplessness of adults, but Russel suspected she knew it was all a show and had merely decided to play along. The pantomime ended with a long, silk scarf in gold tones and an abstract pendant of concentric circles on a gold chain that Noodle insisted be worn immediately and helped to fasten.

Rachel Pot thanked her and asked, “Did you help pick this as well, Noodle?”

When she nodded, Russel added, “Noodle has the best taste out of all of us.”

“Yes!” Noodle agreed, unabashed, and then prodded his arm. “Now you.”

Noodle all but helped him pull the paper off. The box of cigars was not large, containing only eight cigars in total, but each was unique and appeared to be individually selected to create a custom sampler.

“I do prefer a pipe, but have dabbled,” David Pot informed him. “Stuart mentioned your preferences, so I chose a few similar that I’ve enjoyed in the past and some that are a mystery to both of us, but came recommended. Medium to full flavoured, for the most part, with one or two milder ones for variety. Not for use around the little one, of course.”

“Thank you, sir,” Russel said, as Noodle admired the artwork on each of the labels. “It’s a terrible vice, but one I enjoy. I’ll try to keep Noodle out of it.”

“Well, it isn’t Christmas without a little vice. Stuart, grab some wine glasses, if you would.”

2-D tucked his envelope under the edge of the serving tray and rose to comply as his father signalled for the wine bottle to be returned to him.

“I don’t know why these things are always equipped with a corkscrew, really,” David Pot said, using the new multi-tool to open the bottle. “I never used it on my old one. This might be my only chance.”

He poured it out as soon as 2-D returned, passing some to his wife, and to Russel, who accepted a half-glass. To appease her badgering, Russel let Noodle try a sip, to which she made a horrified face, and requested more tea.

“Your turn!” she told Murdoc once she was settled in with a warm-up.

Russel did not get a good look at the bottle Murdoc unwrapped, but from the colour of the liquid, he guessed that it was whiskey, and from the look on Murdoc’s face, he guessed that it was good.

“Not… er… an insignificant name,” Murdoc mused as Noddle leaned over the arm of his chair, checking the label.

“Yes, well… As David said, it isn’t Christmas without a little vice,” Rachel Pot replied, her voice slightly sweeter than necessary. “Not, of course, to be drunk if you plan to drive.”

“No. Definitely not,” Murdoc said thoughtfully, and Russel realized that the apparently pricey bottle of whiskey would never be tasted. It was too good a bottle, and Rachel Pot’s response entirely too kind, for Murdoc to be anything but suspicious. It would sit on a shelf and rot because Murdoc would permit no one to drink it except him, and he would not consent to throwing it away, just in case, but unless he was feeling immensely self-destructive, he would also never be able to open it without thinking of 2-D’s mother smiling beatifically at him and wondering if that was the last thing mortal men saw before they died.

It would drive him stark raving _mad_.

Rachel Pot was not the devil – Russel had been possessed by enough things to know the difference – but she might well be his representative on earth.

“Well, thank you very kindly,” Murdoc said, his tone rendering his statement something shy of a question. “Noodle? Perhaps you would like to go bother 2-D about his gift, hm?”

“Your turn! Your turn!” Noodle said, turning to 2-D, completely oblivious of the silent drama unfolding around her.

“Mine’s not as exciting, wrapping-wise,” 2-D told her, picking up the envelope and peeling off the seal used to hold it shut. He pulled out a few sheets of paper and unfolded them. Backlighting revealed a print shadow that looked suspiciously like electronic tickets. 2-D wrinkled his nose, tongue prodding the gap between his teeth, as he read them over.

“Issa film festival!” he said gleefully. “All horror, two passes.”

“So you can bring a friend… or a girl,” David Pot told him. “There’s a room reserved at the hotel, so you can stay on site. It has two beds, but you can make your own sleeping arrangements once you get there.”

“Have’ta find someone who likes horror,” 2-D said somewhat wistfully. “I think Russ and Murdoc get enough with what I run at the studio.”

“Look, man, I got your back if you need a second,” Russel said, “but you know I won’t be as into it as you. You’re better off with someone who has a similar background.”

“Me! Me!” Noodle volunteered. “Zombies!”

“Can’t, luv. You’re not eighteen,” 2-D told her. “They won’t let you in.”

“You let her watch horror movies?” David Pot said, feigning disbelief as Noodle sat back in a sulk at the unfairness of the world.

“Come off it, Dad. You let me watch Night of the Living Dead when I was six or something an’a teachers sent me home for starting the liver eating game.”

“I still can’t believe you lost to Molly Kirkpatrick.”

“She really got into it,” 2-D protested. “Kinda scary, actually.”

“Too bad her family moved to Canada. You could have asked her.”

“An’ caused a national panic, maybe,” 2-D grinned, as he folded up the tickets, tucked them back into the envelope, and folded the flap inside. “She wanted to be a mortician. A teacher asked her if she meant a ‘beautician’ and she asked if she could still cut open dead people. Could’a lost my liver for… for… uh…”

2-D trailed off as he stared at the envelope. No longer fretting with it, he was able to read its message for the first time. Brow furrowed, he flipped it and looked at the back, as if uncertain whether it was the same one, and then flipped it back over, hands trembling and eyes tear-bright, to see the message had not changed.

“Would you like me to put that back in the tree so it doesn’t get lost?” David Pot said quietly, acknowledging his son’s distress by not making an issue of it.

“Um… Uh… Yeah,” 2-D murmured, letting his father take the envelope and rubbing unselfconsciously at his eyes with the heal of one hand. He smiled at Noodle, who had risen onto her knees and was shifting nervously. “You gonna open yours, now, pun’kin? I bet everyone wants to see.”

“Okay,” Noodle said, subdued by 2-D’s upset, but seemingly reassured by the sincerity of his smile and the prospect of opening a present. Her liveliness returned as she started to peel away the shiny paper and lifted the lid off the gift box. Folding back the tissue paper inside, her eyes widened in delight.

“It’s mine!” she cried, lifting up a clock of layered wood in the shape of her guitar. “Thank you!”

“It’s a gift from all of us,” Rachel Pot said, resting a hand on her son’s knee. “Stuart took a picture of your guitar—“

“And Rachel redrew all the layers to size,” David Pot added, assuming, perhaps, that his wife would skip over her own contributions. “A friend cut the pieces for me to sand, seal, and put together and I added the clock motor. Stuart strung it and provided the music box.”

“Music?” Noodle asked, bringing the clock to her host when he held out his hand.

“We didn’t plug the battery in while it was boxed,” David Pot explained, showing her how to open the battery compartment. With the power engaged, he turned the clock back over and slowly spun the minute hand around the clock face until it reached the top of the hour. The clock chimed with a gentle guitar chord that melted into melody and a lilting child’s voice singing in Japanese.

“It’s me!” Noodle crowed, then “Russu!” as a quiet rhythm crept in to support the tune, and “Murdoku!” when a subtle baseline wound its way into the mix.

Russel remembered when 2-D had recorded that track, joking around in the studio with Noodle and asking her to sing something in Japanese. Noodle remembered almost nothing of the time before she joined the band, but some things seemed instinctive, mapped onto her subconscious, including certain cultural notions of politeness, a fondness for particular foods, and a knowledge of children’s lore. She had played a tune or two and then sung the lyrics on a separate track as a way to “test the equipment”. 2-D had then brought he and Murdoc in on the project, asking them to record their parts, telling them it was a present for Noodle and that he would explain later.

He never did and Russel had put it out of his mind, but now he recalled the effort of searching online for a matching version of the music 2-D chose and the singer’s painstaking efforts to learn the correct pronunciation of the accompanying lyrics. Not wanting to drown out the guitar melody with his keyboards, he had opted for background vocals and wanted no discrepancies that would draw attention away from Noodle’s voice. Russel supposed it must have worked because he noticed nothing untoward in the vocal harmony and Noodle squealed with excitement when she heard it.

“Toochi!” she announced in case any of them had missed it, and then hummed along with the music. It only lasted a minute or so, and then she wound the minute hand around again to set it off a second time.

“You know, it’s supposed to tell the time,” Murdoc gently chastised when the music came to an end. “It’s not a radio.”

Russel wondered for a moment if the comment would spark an argument regarding Noodle’s ability to choose what was done with her gift, but Noodle circumvented it by scolding Murdoc right back.

“It’s Gorillaz!” she informed him, bringing the clock over and making him pull her up onto his lap. She turned the minute hand around a third time. When the bass line came in, she added, “See? It’s you!”

“So it is, love,” Murdoc replied, amused, and let her settle in to listen to the song as many times as she wanted.

The end of the gift-giving marked the end of the evening’s excitement and they lapsed into conversation. 2-D helped his mother pick up the discarded wrapping and freshen drinks, reminding them that there were leftovers from dinner for anyone feeling hungry. Russel declined, but took over as Noodle’s proxy chair when she tired of making her new clock strike the hour, Murdoc decided to step out for a cigarette, and David Pot traded places with his wife in the kitchen.

Settled in Russel’s lap, Noodle ate a mincemeat pie and chattered to Rachel Pot about all the things Russel was helping her learn, eventually moving to sit beside her on the sofa so that Russel could avail himself of the facilities. He had thought 2-D had followed Murdoc outside on his extended break, but as he passed by the kitchen, the voices of 2-D and his father drifted out, engaged in conversation.

“—school in Australia.”

“Peter, then.”

“He never liked that kind of thing, Dad. An’ we haven’t talked in a bit. Not since… Well, you know how it’s been.”

“I don’t want to intrude—“

Russel forced himself to keep moving and mind business that was actually his own. He could not help hearing a little more of the conversation, however, when he entered the kitchen for a drink.

“—if you’re sure.”

“Yeah. You got me into it,” 2-D was saying as Russel stepped into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, fishing potatoes out of the serving dish, and raised a hand in greeting.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Russel said. “I just wanted a glass of water.”

“We were just finishing up, I think,” David Pot told him. He patted 2-D on the shoulder. “I’ll see you boys in a bit.”

2-D nodded, looking both weary and quietly pleased. He fetched a glass from a cupboard, filled it with cold water from a jug in the refrigerator, and passed it to Russel.

“Thanks, man,” Russel said. “You doin’ okay? You look tired as Hell.”

2-D sighed deeply and resumed picking at the potatoes.

“Yeah. I’m a’right,” he said, his words slurring together a little in his exhaustion. “Long day, y’know? Just… long day.”

“Anything you wanna talk about?”

“Nah. S’not like that. Just… long day. Glad I came though. Thanks for makin’ us. I dunno if I’d’ve dun it even just for Noodle if, y’know, it was just the two of us. But… Mum an’ Dad are happy to see her. I think, maybe… I dun have brothers an’ sisters, so…”

So there’s no guarantee they’ll be grandparents, Russel thought, but did not say. There was no general reason 2-D couldn’t have a family – other musicians did – but it was not outside the realm of possibility that 2-D faced complications that lowered his chances of success, be they medical, psychological, or physical. If nothing else, he was already plagued by his own doubts on the matter.

“Yeah, I get it,” Russel told him. “Christmas is really better with kids around and there aren’t any in your family. Not yet, anyway.”

2-D smiled at Russel’s efforts to soften his concerns, but his expression was wan and strained.

“Worth comin’ anyway. Thanks. You ever go back to see your folks?”

“Sometimes,” Russel said. “I hate air travel, so I don’t really go for holidays. I prefer to take a few weeks and go during the off-season. Hard to get out with an album on though. Still… Not missin’ it too much, to be honest. Things got kinda weird after… Well, after they sent me to England. I mean, I know they did it with good intentions, but it was still a bad time.”

“I’m sorry, Russ,” 2-D told him, resting a hand on his arm. Russel did his best not to pull away – he was not one for physical contact, but understood it to be instinctive to 2-D’s nature.

“It’s fine, D,” Russel said. “I’ll visit them later when things cool down a bit. My aunt and uncle went out there this year, so it’s not like they won’t have news, and I don’t miss hanging with my aunt and uncle ‘cause watching Noodle lose her shit over literally everything has probably been the best time of my life.”

2-D laughed at that and agreed, taking his hand back to put it to work stealing potatoes.

“I worried a bit about celebrating Christmas with her,” Russel admitted. “I checked around online and it doesn’t seem to be much of a thing in Japan. At least not the same kinda thing. But she didn’t remember anything about this time of year and got real excited over all the Christmas commercials and displays and things, so…” He shrugged. “I figured we might as well go with what we know. It won’t all be new to her next year, so she might have other opinions then, but that’s something we can worry about when it’s something to worry about. This year she gets to be excited and your folks have been great with her. With all of us. So it looks like you worked yourself up for nothing this morning.”

2-D shrugged.

“It wan’t just that,” he said, “although that was a lot. Murdoc’s been good too, actually. It wan’t as weird as I thought it would be.”

“I half heard you and your dad in here. Did you invite him to go to the festival with you?”

“Yeah,” 2-D said, brow furrowed. “Issat weird? He wanted me to ask a friend, but I dun… I dun really have friends anymore. They… After I woke up, like, I din’t really remember ‘em. I mean, I knew about ‘em, but it din’t mean anything, you know? Like, I could tell you about ‘em, but I din’t _feel_ anything for ‘em. It was scary, actually. It was hard to talk to ‘em and… Well… They all had stuff to do, so we din’t really get to know each other again. And the funny thing… The really funny thing is, I dun miss ‘em, but I still do. You know? Like I can’t miss _them_ because I dun remember enough about ‘em, but there’re these… holes…”

2-D gestured helplessly and patted his chest as though trying to pack it with something ethereal that only he could see.

“An’ I felt like that about my parents too, for a long time,” he added before Russel could comment. “Like I knew ‘em, but din’t. But they were around all the time, so I started to remember a bit. Smells help. An’ sounds. An’ the way things feel. Touching things. But sometimes… sometimes I still feel like ever’thing’s strange an’ I dun really know ‘em. Not like I know you an’ Noodle an’ Murdoc. But i’s my Dad who showed me movies when I was l’il, so I thought… if we went…”

“I think it’s a great idea, D,” Russel told him and squeezed his shoulder.

“Thanks. An’ I’m sorry I maybe talk too much sometimes,” 2-D said. “Not a great party conversation.”

“It’s fine, D. And I’m sorry about your friends. I lost mine, but can still talk to ‘em. It’s kinda weird sometimes, but not so lonely. Not usually.”

“‘Cause you got Del?”

“Yeah, although we talked about it and he decided to lie low today. Not freak your folks out,” Russel said. “I’m maybe kinda sorry he did. I’m not sure if he got to watch Noodle in action or not.”

“I’m sorry, Russ. If I’d thought of it before, maybe I coulda tried talkin’ to my folks an’ maybe Del coulda been around more,” 2-D said. Beyond him, Russel heard Murdoc coming back in from his extended break.

“Don’t worry about it,” Russel told him. “Like I said, we had a talk already and we’ve got an understanding. Hell, he might still know what’s going on and is just waitin’ for us to get back to the studio.”

“Just haunt the place. I won’t complain,” Murdoc said, entering the kitchen. “And stop shoving potatoes in your face. You haven’t stopped eating since you got here except to sleep. Where the fuck do they even go? You’re the size of a drinking straw.”

2-D waved a hand over his head to indicate his height.

“I wanna be six-three by Jan’ry.”

“Sure, sure,” Murdoc said, slapping 2-D’s belly and eliciting a grunt of discomfort. “You’re a bloody disgrace.”

“Nuh. I just like roast potatoes.” 2-D lightly scratched his abdomen where Murdoc had thumped him. “If you din’t wanna go into the front room by yourself, you coulda just said.”

“Not implyin’ anything, Dents. That’s some imagination you got there,” Murdoc said. “I’m off to see what Noodle’s up to.”

Noodle had migrated to Rachel Pot’s lap, leaning up against her shoulder, warbling the song played by her new clock. She sang it a line at a time, carefully enunciated, and the woman sang it back to her, gently stroking her hair. This repeated until Noodle was satisfied, and then they sang it together, adding it onto the previously memorized lines. Rachel Pot’s voice was untrained and unpractised, but fair enough to make it clear from which side of the family her son’s talent had sprung. David Pot sat at the other end of the sofa, watching and listening, drink in hand. 2-D crawled back in between them – fishing a mincemeat pie off the tray as he passed – less flustered now to be so close to his family and more eager for their attention. His father shifted his position to give 2-D more room, but left his arm resting along the back of the sofa, scratching the back of 2-D’s head and rubbing the base of his neck with one thumb when he leaned back in his seat.

Conversation was low-key for the rest of the evening, cropping up in and around the ongoing lesson in Japanese children’s songs, until Noodle began to yawn and look excessively sleepy and it was suggested that it might not be a bad time for her to be in bed. Or for 2-D to follow her, for that matter, dozing as he was against his father’s shoulder. David Pot nudged his son awake and then stood to take Noodle from his wife, strong despite his wiry frame. Noodle did not protest – as she often did, even when allowing herself to be carried – but burrowed her face into the crook of her host’s neck and wrapped her legs around him, clinging to him as she might cling to 2-D. Rachel Pot followed her husband upstairs, determined to wish her youngest guest goodnight, and promised to return to fix up the sofa.

“Gonna turn in too,” 2-D said, picking up the much depleted tray of pies and stacking some dishes in the empty spaces. “After I set this up for Mum.”

“Just toss me a pillow and a blanket,” Murdoc said. “I’ll probably be in and out all night. Hell, might creep away and see what the nightlife’s like around here. It’s still early.”

“I’s dead. The nightlife, I mean,” 2-D said. “You wanna grab the other bowls?”

“Hold that thought, I’m going for a piss,” Murdoc told him and slipped out of the room.

From the position of his eyebrows, Russel suspected that 2-D was rolling his eyes, but it was difficult to tell through the film of his hyphema.

“I’ll get ‘em, D,” Russel assured him, grabbing everything he could and following 2-D into the kitchen. “I’ve got the spare bedroom. Are you sure you’re gonna be all right in your old place? If you think it’ll be uncomfortable, I can switch with you. Your bed looked like a double. I’m sure Noodle and I could both fit.”

“I’s a’right,” 2-D told him. “I’m used to it and you’ll like the spare. Issa a nice bed, but too soft for me. I get kinda stiff an’ sore.”

“I guess you would,” Russel said. “You know, it’s probably not my place to say, but if you want to visit your folks more, you should have them gut your room. Just… clean the whole place out, paint it, put new furniture in. Or if the cost’s too high on that, sand down your old furniture and repaint it, but definitely do the walls, lose the posters. They can send them to you if you want to keep ‘em, but maybe not have them up around the place if… you know… if they don’t have the same meaning.”

2-D picked at the edge of a pie, causing the crust to crumble into powder on the tray.

“I thought about that,” he said, “but I… sometimes I… part of me…”

2-D gestured, searching, frustrated by the inadequacy of language.

“All right, that’s fine. I get it,” Russel said. “If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. It’s not about what’s good or bad, just what makes you comfortable.”

“Yeah. One day I will,” 2-D said, “but not at Christmas.”

They finished cleaning up the front room, taking blankets and pillows from Rachel Pot when she brought them down and assuring her that they would take care of that as well. Murdoc sauntered back in, secure in the knowledge that the cleaning was taken care of and their hostess bid them all a good night on behalf of herself and her husband, who had opted to tell Noodle a story. 2-D followed his mother upstairs, rucksack over one shoulder, after eliciting an assurance from Russel that he knew how to find the guest room.

“About time,” Murdoc said once they had left, snatching 2-D’s gift out of the tree. “I want to know what the bloody Hell set my singer off. I thought the waterworks would start for sure.”

Murdoc read the envelope over and snorted in disgust.

“Well?” Russel prompted.

“It’s just a bloody label. Has his name on it and says ‘Merry Christmas’,” Murdoc complained, although he kept his voice low enough to ensure it would not be heard upstairs. “Stupid, sentimental sod. The whole family’s half-mad.”

“Is this about your gift?”

“Best scotch I’ve seen in a dog’s age.”

“There’s nothing in it,” Russel said, secretly amused. “It’s a sealed bottle.”

“She’s a nurse, Russ. They’ve got those long, thin needles.”

“I’m sure it’s fine, man. So sure, in fact, that I’m willing to take the first shot just to prove it.”

“Sod off, it’s my bottle. With a price tag like that, the first person drinking my bottle is me.”

“Then enjoy it because there’s no way she would have poisoned it,” Russel said. When he gauged that Murdoc was about to relax, he added, “Not when she can just run you down three months from now and call it an accident. I mean… why would she do it on purpose? She doesn’t hold a grudge. She got you a really nice bottle of scotch for Christmas.”

“She’s not that clever,” Murdoc said confidently. He paused to consider. “You don’t think she’s that clever, do you? 2-D's not that clever.”

“You got a point, man. 2-D’s a straight-forward kinda guy. Sweet. Forgiving. Not much to say for himself. Takes after his dad.”

“You’re killin’ me, Russ.”

“Not _me_ ,” Russel demurred. “’Night, Muds.”

Leaving Murdoc to ponder his mortality, Russel grabbed his bag and made his way upstairs. For the first time in a long time, the night felt warm and welcoming. He missed Del fiercely and considered inviting him out for an evening chat, but he was worn out and feared dozing off mid-conversation. It could wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow they would be back at the studio and there would be plenty of time for conversation. He even considered giving his parents a call. He might even introduce them to Noodle, granddaughter by proxy and chatterbox by trade, bursting with ongoing holiday excitement.

Cheered by the thought, Russel buried himself in warm blankets, the bed every bit as soft as promised, and let himself drift off to the soft sound of 2-D’s crooning as he quietly sang Noodle to sleep.


End file.
